Teething Trouble
by Inks Inc
Summary: Christian Grey gets a little more than he bargained for during a routine trip to his local dentist. One-Shot.


"Christian Grey for Dr Lomas?"

The receptionist looks up at me with a bored expression and sighs.

 _Old bag._

"Take a seat. He's with another patient, he'll be with you when he can."

Oh, so I have to wait. Like a commoner, like one of those peasant folks on that awful fucking show that Mia salivates over. The Tudors or some such shit. I glare at the ancient hag, but she doesn't give a flying fuck. My looks only work on women who weren't widowed by the Vietnamese war. I glance over at the waiting area, also occupied by the village people, and repress a shudder. I keep myself occupied by thinking about the decontamination process I'm going to work through when I get out of here and fantasising about the pain meds this jerk is going to prescribe me.

I'm wise enough without the fucking gnawing pain of an impacted wisdom tooth.

It's agony.

And not the good kind.

About fifteen hours pass us by at a snail's pace and the pain is building as my patience, what little I possess, dissipates. I think about venturing up to the receptionist's desk once again and dropping a little hint to the wizened creature behind it about who the hell I am, but I think better of it. She might die if antagonised and Sam would shit his pants if I brought that kind of PR to GEH's door. Scowling, I flick through my BlackBerry and lament all the important CEO-like things I could be doing right now.

Like having some fun in the playroom.

But I don't have a sub.

I couldn't even have a turkey and lettuce subway today, the fucking place is closed, never mind an actual sub.

Fuck my life.

The whole dentist's office looks up as a commotion suddenly clangs to life on the other side of Dr Lomas' door. My head in particular snaps up with force, scandalized by the lack of professionalism that this place seems to run on. All eyes are on the thick oak door as it careers open, slamming back against its supporting wall. A demented looking young woman staggers from the sterile office, a surgical bib still attaching to her summery dress. There's a wild look in her eyes as her uproarious laughter shatters the silent air. Dr Lomas hurries behind her with haggard horror in his every step.

It's an easy sight to assess.

This is one hell of a bad reaction to nitrous oxide, AKA, fun time gas.

"Miss _,"_ Dr Lomas squeals, "Please, you mustn't leave in this-"

The young woman places a slender finger over his mouth with a giggle and shushes him effectively. My eyes widen as I get my first real glimpse of her. She is fucking _beautiful._ She's a tumble of long and slender legs and shiny, mahogany hair. Blue eyes are wideset and full of mischievous life as she giggles with such force that her entire and very shapely, body shakes with laughter. To my horror, I feel myself hardening.

She's… she's…. fuck me, she's _hot._

And she's medicated.

Medicated and hot.

The entire waiting room watches as she stumbles like a chronic alcoholic across the reception area, knocking into and vehemently apologising to, an ornate free-standing lamp. Twirling the decorative and low-hanging treads of the ancient shade through her fingers, she giggles with a honeyed laugh and informs the inanimate object that he (apparently, he's a he) is _very_ pretty and if he wasn't a lamp, she would totally _do_ him.

I want to be the lamp.

Why can't I be the lamp?

Stupid fucking lamp.

Dr Lomas watches in hopeless horror as she bids a fond farewell to the silent lighting fixture, and continues her landslide across the room. She stops at a large diagram of a _healthy mouth_ and traces her finger over the bright pink gums and chortles happily, muttering away to herself about gummy bears or something. It is only when she gets nearer to the door and the very busy street that lays beyond, that my instincts kick in.

She'll be knocked down.

She'll be taken advantage of.

I… somehow… I can't let that happen.

And it's not because I'm a classic gentleman.

Springing to my feet, my hand covers hers as it drunkenly clasps the door handle and she gazes unseeingly up at me with those insanely blue eyes. I'm glad that I came here in more… loose fitting pants, because the flag is flying pretty high right about now. Her skin is soft and warm under mine and I want to get to know every inch of skin she possesses.

What the fuck is the matter with me?

She's like… twenty-one, twenty-two tops.

An infant.

Freshly ejected from the womb.

What the hell am I doing?

"I really don't think you should be going out there alone in your current condition, Miss…?"

She splutters with laugher in my grasp and rolls her eyes.

 _Rolls her eyes._

People don't roll their eyes at me.

But fuck me… I like it when _she_ does it.

"Who are you," she chokes out, "My… my _dad?"_

The flag flutters down to half-mast, my ego skulks in the corner, kicking a can down the road in ire. _Her dad?_ Is she for fucking real? Does no one in this hellhole know who I _am?_ I keep a hold of her hand and stare down into her vibrant irises and try to formulate a sufficiently cutting response, but that's not really how the party unfolds.

"I can be whatever you need me to be, sweetheart."

What the _fuck_ was that, Grey?

I'm not going to be this girl's _daddy,_ I'm not into that. (Not that there's anything wrong with that, I know a guy who knows a guy who lives a very splendid lifestyle in that particular niche)

She stops laughing for a moment and gazes up at me in silent wonder.

And I know then that we have to get out of here.

Fuck the teeth.

I'll have Taylor pull the damn thing out if needs be.

(Note to self: That's not going to happen, I would scream like a fucking hyena in heat.)

"Why don't I get you home, hmm? You clearly need to sleep this off."

She doesn't resist me as I gently carrel her out of the office, ignoring Dr Lomas' moan of dismay as he watches his cash cow leave his pasture. I expect myself to be filled with impure thoughts as I guide the still chuckling mystery woman towards my waiting town car.

But I'm not.

I'm just… concerned, for her.

For fucks sake, what is the _matter_ with me?

We only get a couple of feet down the sidewalk before she baulks in my grasp and stares up at me suspiciously, looking very much like she's coming down off a particularly fun brownie. Her silky hair ruffles against my hands and the sensation is more than pleasing.

"You… you're… I _know_ you…" she stutteringly declares, "You're… you're… that crazy rich dude that Kate keeps shitting on about… you're uhhmm… you're… uhh, I know it, I know it… you're _Mark Zuckerberg,_ right?"

My mouth drops open.

Mark fucking Zuckerberg?

 _Do I look particularly deformed today or something?_

He's… I'm… he's… but I'm so pretty and he's so… not…

"No," I say slowly, through clenched teeth, wondering if picking up gassed women in dentist's offices is perhaps not the cleverest of endeavours. "I'm not the founder of Facebook, Mark Zuckerberg, my name is Christian Grey and-"

She gasps and stands so suddenly stock still that I nearly topple over her.

People are staring.

I find I don't care.

"You're _Christian Grey?_ As in… as in… _the_ Christian Grey?"

I smile smugly.

Yeah, baby, that's me.

The one and only.

"That's me, in the flesh."

She gasps loudly and places a hand over her heart in dramatic amazement.

The flag is rising.

"Wow," she splutters and slurs almost drunkenly, "I've never heard of you."

The flag is falling, it's falling hard and fast.

White House fucking down over here.

"I see," I mutter grimly, "What's _your_ name then, seeing as you haven't mentioned it?"

She throws her head back and breathes in the air deeply, like a crazy person.

Before snapping it back up with such force that she might as well be Pennywise the Dancing fucking Clown.

"I," she declares loudly, like she's reciting the pledge of allegiance, "Am Anastasia Steele and…" she giggles, "I am very pleased to meet you… Mark… Christian… whoever, whatever…."

Her eyes swim in and out of focus before zeroing in on my face.

"Do you have any food? Old people… old people always carry food… I am _starving…"_

 _Old people._

 _OLD PEOPLE?!_

I breathe and breathe some more and then, after that, I decide to breathe a little more still and a little harder. Before I can inform this wench of the night, with the great rack and even greater eyes, that I am far from fucking old, a screech penetrates the deepest, darkest crevices of my ear drums.

" _Get your geriatric hands OFF of her!"_

 _Geriatric._

 _GERIATRIC?!_

A young blonde woman is careering down the street. She's also hot, but not my type. She's Elliot's type. She's pissed, her mouth is setting into a hard line and she's making a beeline for me and… Anastasia. Fuck me, that's a nice name and despite her medicated and smart mouth, she seems like a nice girl. A really nice girl…

What is wrong with me?!

The mysterious woman rips Anastasia from my arms and I feel an odd pang of loss. She bundles her into her side and frostily announces that her name is Kate, like I give a shit, and demands to know what I'm doing with her temporarily vulnerable friend. I give her the cliff notes version and she thaws a little, but still eyes me with an almost instinctively feral dislike. She thanks me for taking care of little miss Anastasia and informs me that she'll take it from here.

But Anastasia has other ideas.

Wrenching herself from her friend's grasp, she roots around in the handbag that magically managed to stay attached to her and scribbles drunkenly on a dishevelled looking Post It, before pressing into my hand and wobbling slightly, stands up on her tiptoes and presses a sloppily wet kiss on my cheek and bids me to call her… sometime.

Kate sighs, rolls her eyes and wrests her friend back into her grasp.

But yet again, Anastasia has other ideas, and she rips herself laughingly free.

Standing on the balls of her unsteady feet, she eyes me speculatively and I find I can't rip my eyes away from her petite little face. There's something endearingly and innocently beautiful about this girl, a purity that emanates from her like the gas she's ingested, hovering around her in a puffy cloud. She's screwing up the nerve to say something, her brow is furrowed in concentration as she draws herself shakily up to her full height. She's going to say something profound, I can feel it, I can sense it. She's going to say something enlightening, something that somehow, I'm going to remember forever. She's opening her mouth, she's moving a little closer and she…

Vomits violently all over my three-thousand-dollar shoes.

…..

Random One-Shot.

Inks x


End file.
